Veterans Day
Though I am a veteran (U.S. Army, Aug. 1958- June 1961), my respect and honor goes to those veterans who served in wars, on battlefields, who perhaps slogged through mud, who perhaps scooted forward on their stomachs knowing they could be in the sighting crosshairs of the rifle of the enemy, who perhaps watched a buddy be mortally wounded, who witnessed horror upon horror, and to those whose futures were stolen from them.
I was fortunate; I did what my British friend recently called my "national service" during a period of peace.
At the Brockton Veteran's Hospital, where I've had physical exams, huge letters in the lobby say: "Those who have long enjoyed such privileges as we enjoy forget in time that men have died to win them."
I don't forget.
It is good to remember those lads, George. I always think of my Grandad who slogged through the mud in the trenches for four years. I wish I had talked to him more about that time. Then my cousin who was shot down in his aircraft in world war two. I find Armistice Day here the saddest day of the year.
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